


An Illyrian Christmas

by Zanne



Series: John Winchester/Illyria 'verse [8]
Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Illyria spend Christmas with Sam and Dean.  Illyria doesn't have the idea down quite yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Illyrian Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to hakirby for the beta job! Kripke owns the Winchesters and Whedon owns Illyria. This is a totally sugar-riffic fic. Your teeth may rot and fall out.

_Iiiii’ve been dreeeaming of a whiiiite Christmas, just like the ones we used to knoooow….  
_  
The peaceful crooning of Bing Crosby was drowned out by four shrieking children spilling out of the family room and streaking around the first floor of the house like misdirected comets, shrilly screaming for any parental figure that might be within hearing distance – and with the volume they had attained as a group, that could very well be anyone on the block.

John closed his eyes for a moment and headed for the living room, glaring at Illyria sitting so serenely on the sofa next to a tousled haired little boy with Dean’s big green eyes. The boy looked up at John with an awed expression and whispered, “Grandpa, Illyria tells the _best_ stories.”

“Go find your father, J.J.,” John ordered. “I think he’s gonna need some help rounding up your sister and cousins.”

As the little boy loped out of the room, John turned to Illyria and asked, “What were you doing?”

Illyria blinked up at him in affront. “They asked for the Santa Claus story and I told it to them.”

“Dear God,” John muttered. “Not the one with the entrails, I hope.”

Illyria’s forehead wrinkled slightly with a vague hint of confusion. “There is another one?”

John covered his face with his hand, already formulating the apology he’d have to make to both Sarah and Ava once they got the full account out of the children. “No more stories, OK? Not without pre-approval.”

Illyria sniffed with obvious disdain. “I see nothing wrong in preparing them for potential evisceration on this day of all days.”

“We’re going to have to help J.J. round up the little ones.” John stifled a laugh, finding himself amused despite the bawling children he could hear off in the kitchen.

Illyria stood up beside him, replying with something that could be deciphered as either pride or disappointment in her Guide’s genetic line, “He is the only one of merit.” She shuttered her gaze in John’s direction as if dispensing good news. “He suggested killing the Claus with the fireplace poker.”

“ _Dean Winchester_ ,” came a disgruntled voice from the doorway. “I thought I told you that the household weapons discussion was to wait until he was _ten_.” Ava, holding a little girl snuffling softly against her chest, glared at her husband standing beside her and stalked towards the kitchen, calling, “Sarah! _Sarah_! Where is Sam? I need to ask him to kill his brother.”

“I can always count on you to make Christmas interesting, Illyria,” Dean grimaced, his gaze following his wife’s retreating figure. He turned back to her, a grin widening over his face. “J.J. actually suggested the poker? That’s my boy!”

Grumbling under his breath, Dean wandered over to the radio. “Who put on this Crosby crap?” He fiddled with the knobs until he found some AC/DC and cranked it up.

 _…I just can't wait till Christmas time/When I can roll you in the hay…_

 __Sam loomed up behind his brother, nodding his head in Illyria’s direction. “I’ve been sent to kill you, Dean. Your wife doesn’t want the kids to find the body. Care to go out back to make this easy on me?”

Sam broke into a laugh as his brother shoved him aside, throwing a warning glare at him. “I can still take you, Sammy. Don’t tempt me.”

Behind them, a little girl tattled loudly, “Uncle Dean just called Daddy ‘ _Sammy_ ’ again! They’re gonna fiiiiiiiiight!” With that, she ran screaming down the hallway after her twin sister, making growling noises as the other girl tried to hit her over the head with her mangled Barbie.

“Mary! Jessica!” Sam warned, poking his head out the door. “Stop fighting and get ready for bed.” He threw a pointed look at his brother. “I told you not to let them eat the frosting straight out of the container. We’ll be lucky if they go to sleep within the next _week_.”

Sarah waved at them distractedly as she ran by the door, chasing down her youngest as he toddled off after his still fighting sisters.

They headed for the kitchen, casually cleaning up the cookie mess left behind as the kids were taken to bed, with Illyria supervising the men in her usual detached manner.

“As for the sleeping arrangements, since I’m not gettin’ any tonight, I expect you two to behave yourselves,” Dean directed his father and Illyria. Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the pantry to put away the extra boxes of cookie mix. “Right, Sam? My house, my rules - that’s what Dad always said.”

“I’m staying out of this Dean. That’s why I’m in the pantry. I refuse to tell my father he can’t have sex if he wants to.”

Dean frowned in his general direction and taunted, “Fine. You want to stay in the closet, go ahead,” and locked the pantry door behind Sam.

“Not funny, Dean,” came Sam’s muffled reply. Dean ignored him, turning back to talk to John and Illyria as they listened passively, used to the digging comments about their potential carnal relations. No matter how many times John told him, Dean refused to believe his father wasn’t having sex with the X-rated Smurf. John couldn’t believe the temerity of his first born, who actually asked with leering curiosity– when Illyria wasn’t within hearing distance, of course – if she were blue anywhere else.

“Fine,” Sam said with patient resolve. “You seem to forget that the Christmas cookies were left in here to cool.” An audible chewing could be heard, and through an obviously full mouth, Sam said, “I’m gonna eat them all and you won’t get _any_.”

“The kids will hate you!” Dean warned the still chewing Sam.

“M’ll tell ‘em y’ate th’m,” Sam mumbled through the door and a mouthful of cookie. He swallowed loudly. “Who do you think they’ll believe?”

Dean’s mouth dropped open, ready to protest, and hung there as he tried to refute Sam’s statement. With a shrug, he gave up and unlocked the pantry door. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Sam exited the pantry, brushing crumbs off his sweater. “The kids aren’t stupid, Dean. They know you’re full of shit.”

“Moooommeeeeee!” came the shrill voice from the door. “Daddy said _sh_ -.”

Sam scooped up Jessica and clamped a hand over her mouth. “ _Bed_ ,” he said sternly. “ _Now_!” He threw the giggling little girl over his shoulder and carted her up the stairs, leaving Dean behind to deal with John and Illyria.

“You heard him,” Dean said with a suggestive eyebrow arch. “Time for bed.”

Sam’s amused voice called down the stairs as they walked out of the kitchen, “I’ve been told to tell you that Grandpa and Illyria have been elected to stay on Santa Claus Nightwatch since the children refuse to go to sleep unless someone is guarding the fireplace. Something about entrails….”

John laughed, brushing his shoulder against Illyria, who looked almost relieved at the possibility of bloodshed. “Looks like we’re campin’ on the floor for Christmas.”

                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So _that’s_ her nefarious plot,” a voice taunted loudly, waking John from a rather strange dream involving ravening demon hordes and singing blueberries. “She’s starting a John collection. We’d better warn John Deere and Johnny Cash.”

John grumbled something about coffee against Illyria’s armored chest as he nestled closer to her, wincing when a flash nearly blinded him.

“Johnny Cash is dead, Dean,” Sam murmured more considerately as Dean tucked his camera-phone in his back pocket.

“So was Dad!” Dean pointed out. “But that didn’t stop her!” Dean knelt down, tugging on a little leg John could see on the other side of Illyria, who was staring at the ceiling with an expression somewhere between annoyance and bemused tolerance. “J.J…. _John, Jr_.! Time to wake up!”

The little boy yawned sleepily and slowly uncurled from Illyria’s side, the fireplace poker still gripped tightly in his hand. “I was helpin’, Daddy,” he explained with a slow blink, his eyes barely open.

“I know,” Dean replied with a proud smile. “But if Mommy catches you with a fireplace poker in hand, Daddy will be sleepin’ in the Impala for a month.” He scooped up the little boy and carted him towards the door. “Let’s go get some juice to wake up.” The boy nodded, tucking his head into Dean’s shoulder as they disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

“Dean was hoping to catch you naked – get some proof of his allegations,” Sam explained with a quiet laugh.

“My disappointment is vast!” came Dean’s voice from the kitchen. “I could’ve held that over your head for years!”

Sam rolled his eyes. “We wanted to give you some time to get ready. The herd will be down any second.”

John nodded, elbowing Illyria who abruptly shifted to Fred, smiling up at Sam woozily, giving a rather convincing impression of someone who had just been awakened. “Time for presents?”

                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Um…thanks, Fred,” Sam said politely as he and Dean opened their Christmas gifts from her. “It’s just what we…wanted.”

Dean glared in the direction of their father who was having what sounded like a coughing fit over behind the Christmas tree, loud chuckles distinctly evident between coughs. “Fred _*cough*_ picked those out _*choke*_ herself,” John explained breathlessly from his hiding place.

Fred smiled brightly, her eyes sparkling in the morning light seeping through the curtains. “I was watching a _CSI_ marathon in Debuke while John was healing from a decapitation in the bathtub….”

“Mommy?” came a small voice. “What’s de-catty-pation?”

“A really short haircut,” Ava murmured to her youngest. “Go play with your brother.”

“…and I remembered how you were _always_ being hunted by the police because you kept touching things at crime scenes and I realized you probably had never seen the show and didn’t _know_ that they made surgical gloves.” Fred bounced excitedly in her seat. “So now you won’t leave fingerprints behind!”

Sarah and Ava excused themselves hurriedly, mumbling something about breakfast. A few seconds later loud peals of laughter were heard coming from the kitchen with a strangled, “Shhh! They’ll hear!”

Fred beamed proudly. “You should also wear hats because humans lose hair at an alarming rate.” Fred looked pointedly at Dean’s thinning pate. “I told John to buy you some, but he said he’d already gotten you something.”

A strangled wheeze came from behind the tree again, making Dean mutter something about waiting for next Christmas and then seeing what was so funny.

Sam snickered, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “So Fred learned more about breaking and entering from watching TV than we ever did from Dad.”

The laughter behind the tree cut off, followed by a subdued, “Hey!”

“Maybe Ava and Sarah won’t have to bail us out of jail for a while,” Sam continued, eyes bright with mirth.

Dean rolled his eyes, punching Sam on the arm. “Thanks, Fred. They’ll come in handy when I’m burying Sam’s body, I’m sure.”

“It’s on at 3:00AM. Would you care to watch with John and me to pick up more pointers? According to _CSI_ , you are doing everything wrong. I’m surprised you’re not in prison,” Fred continued happily. “You should probably watch _Law &Order_, too.”

The Christmas tree shook suspiciously as John nearly fell into it with another fit of strangled laughter, while a loud squeal and a very unlady-like series of snorts came from the entryway where Ava and Sarah had been recouping.

“Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas to you, too,” Dean grumbled, barely hiding his amusement. “Let’s go eat.”   



End file.
